Padma Shri Shashadhar Acharya on preserving the ancient art of Seraikella Chhau

At the NCPA, we presented Seraikella Chhau, structuring the performance around five thematic pieces. As is our tradition, we began with an invocation — a prayer seeking divine blessings for a successful performance and requesting the audience to watch with care and attention. This opening piece was titled Jatra Ghat Subharam Karna.

The second item, performed in the Seraikella Chhau style, was Ratri, inspired by the Ratri Sukta of the Rig Veda. In this hymn, night is revered as Mahamaya Durga, both fearsome and serene. While our gurus drew upon the original Vedic narrative, they interpreted it in a contemporary context, which is a distinctive feature of Seraikella Chhau. Night was portrayed as a maternal force, with three symbolic presences—evening, night and the moon. As dusk falls, night arrives; with night comes the moon, bringing peace and joy. Rather than simply representing darkness through blackout, the Gurus illustrated how, in Hindu households, women light lamps and blow the conch at dusk, invoking protection and harmony. The moon symbolised all living beings — humans, animals and birds — resting peacefully in the lap of Mother Night. At dawn, as the morning breeze stirs, night gently withdraws.

The third presentation depicted a lesser-known episode of Radha and Krishna. Radha grows jealous of Krishna’s flute, wishing to learn its secret. The flute explains the suffering it endured — cut from bamboo, hollowed, burned — before touching Krishna’s lips. Through this metaphor, the depth of devotion and love was conveyed.

The fourth piece, Kacha Devayani, drawn from the Mahabharata, tells of Kacha learning sacred knowledge from Devayani’s father, only to deceive her. Her grief culminates in a curse, rendered in the spirit of Rabindranath Tagore’s poignant farewell imagery.

The penultimate work, Chandrabhaga, portrayed a tragic tale involving Surya and Kamadeva, ending in sacrifice and remorse.

The final piece celebrated Vasanta, spring, depicted as the stirring of love and renewal in nature and in the hearts of lovers.

Seraikella Chhau is the very lifeblood of the culture of Jharkhand and its people. It is deeply connected to their daily lives. In every village, town and household, there are dancers who practise and perform Chhau. It is not merely an art form but something woven into the social fabric. The environment, customs and traditional attire of the region have influenced Chhau, and in turn, Chhau has shaped the cultural identity of the area.

Seraikella lies in the region of the Seven Saranda Hills, which was once a dense forest. In 1205 AD, when the second branch of the Singh dynasty was established in Singhbhum by Darpanarayan Singh, he incorporated the local tribal communities into his kingdom and army. Because the region was covered by forests, the technique of Chhau drew heavily from the natural movements of animals and birds. One can see the gait of the tiger, deer, goat and snake reflected in its vocabulary. These movements were absorbed into martial practice, and over time, that martial tradition evolved into a form of theatrical dance. In this way, Chhau grew organically from the culture and landscape of Jharkhand.

Historically, the region formed part of ancient Odra Desh. One may therefore say that Chhau has roots in Odia culture, though it was practised extensively in what is now Jharkhand. After Independence, the region was reorganised into different states, Jharkhand having earlier been part of Bihar, while other forms developed in Mayurbhanj in Odisha and Purulia in Bengal.

However, Seraikella is regarded as the birthplace of Chhau. During the Chaitra Parva festival, neighbouring kings were invited to witness the performances. Impressed by the dance, they would take gurus from Seraikella to their own courts. In this way, Chhau spread to 36 royal estates, including Singhbhum, Dhalbhum, Manbhum, Shikarbhum, Barabhum, Sundargarh and others. Gradually, it endured most prominently under three royal lineages: the Singhbhum dynasty in present-day Jharkhand, the Bhanj dynasty of Mayurbhanj, and the Kashipur royal house in Purulia.

In Seraikella Chhau, the use of the mukhota (mask) has been integral from the very beginning. Some suggest that the term 'Chhau' itself derives from Chhavani, meaning image, and indeed, Chhau is all about embodying images. We have never seen the sun or the night directly, yet by forming an image in our minds, we transform it into the mukhota.

I feel the use of the mask often stems from the dance’s origins with the soldiers of the region. Even today, when soldiers go into the jungle, mountains, or rugged terrain, they camouflage themselves, by tying leaves, draping cloths, painting their faces. In essence, this is a form of masking. The same principle applies on stage: by donning the mukhota, a performer sheds their own identity and fully assumes the character they are portraying. For example, even if you know the dancer, wearing the mask at night makes it impossible to recognise them; their personal identity is replaced entirely by the character.

The mukhota also emphasises the body in storytelling. The mask itself has no facial expression, so the dancer conveys all emotions — joy, sorrow, anger — entirely through body movement. This is why Chhau is often described as 'shadow-based,' relying on the body to communicate what the face alone would normally express. Movements of the neck, the bend of the torso, the tilt of the head — all of these subtleties allow the dancer to express the same depth of feeling as an unmasked performance.

The connection between movement and the mukhota is profound. How far to bend, how much to tilt forward or sideways, how to position the neck — all these nuances are essential. The more traditional and classical the technique, the more it demands precision in these physical expressions, even when interpreted through contemporary choreographic thought.

In the early days, under the Akhada system, performances focused on mythological stories from the Ramayana, Mahabharata and the Puranas. Today, while we still draw upon these mythological narratives, we adapt them to reflect contemporary contexts and sensibilities.

In the early days, Chhau emerged from the Paika tradition, and naturally contained many martial elements. Over time, however, as the form evolved, Chhau developed into a full-fledged dance theatre. Its character and expression are therefore very much akin to that of classical theatre. When I studied Chhau and began working deeply with it, I found its movements and props closely aligned with the principles of Sanskrit theatre.

Originally, performers wielded shields and swords, but today these have been transformed into symbolic gestures, intricate footwork, and other expressive elements. Modern Chhau continues to draw upon the foundations laid out in classical texts. Concepts such as Mandala, Brahmari, Utplavan, Chari and Gati Prachar are all embedded within Chhau technique, demonstrating its deep connection to traditional scriptures while maintaining its unique theatrical identity.

In the earlier days, when my father practised this art — and I am the fifth generation in this tradition — the use of stagecraft, or shade, was not very advanced. Today, however, it has developed considerably and has emerged strongly in modern performance. There are now many ways in which shade is employed: for actors, for group compositions, and in dance theatre. It is used both in Sanskrit theatre and in contemporary productions. The evolution of shade has allowed it to play a highly effective role in modern performance, and I am confident it will continue to develop in the future.

As the American scholar Richard Schechner once observed during his visit to Sri Lanka, shade remains deeply rooted in tradition and classical practice, yet the more classical it is, the more it lends itself to contemporary interpretation.

The themes we present today through shade range from poetry to philosophical ideas. While we draw inspiration from poetic sources, the interpretation is approached through modern sensibilities. For instance, in one presentation, the story of a boatman, a navik, is used to symbolise the journey of life. To navigate this ocean of existence successfully, companionship is essential. The boatman and his wife represent a partnership facing life’s challenges together. On stage, there is no actual boat; only the oar (chappu) is used to suggest it. Through this, we convey that when a couple confronts life’s difficulties together, harmony and happiness are achieved. Life’s struggles are symbolically represented, and through movement and storytelling, the message of unity and resilience is communicated to the audience.

Regarding fusion and experimental approaches in Chhau, I feel that success can only come if the traditional essence of the dance is respected. Experiments and fusion are valuable, but they must be grounded in the fundamental principles of Chhau; otherwise, in terms of movement and presence, the performance risks losing its impact.

For example, consider the movement of the arm — it should flow like a river. Observing whether it flows correctly and in the intended direction is crucial. Whenever I work on a performance, I ensure that the core principles of Chhau are preserved first, and then I explore how much experimentation or fusion can be incorporated without compromising its integrity.

Chhau has its own intensity and rhythm, which is distinct from other musical forms. The movements correspond to the rhythm of the drums used in the dance, rather than instruments like the tabla or sitar. This rhythm carries emotion, sentiment and expression, making it unique to Chhau.

In short, there is no objection to experimentation or fusion, provided the essential structure and spirit of Chhau remain intact. By maintaining its fundamentals, we can innovate meaningfully without losing the dance’s traditional identity.

The current challenge facing the arts, particularly in Seraikella, is the dwindling number of young people committed to its practice. Many from the next generation have moved away, leaving only a handful who truly love and pursue the art.

As traditional practitioners, we cannot abandon it, but those learning often ask, “What future will this give me?” In today’s world, survival comes first. Unlike in the days of kings, when artistes were provided with food, shelter and patronage, there is now little financial support or stability. Opportunities to perform are limited, and there is little glamour associated with the art. While special festivals help to showcase Chhau, income remains modest, and making a living through teaching has become increasingly difficult.

Moreover, the younger generation is often in a hurry, seeking immediate results. But art, by its nature, cannot be rushed. It demands time, discipline, dedication, and deep interest. That is why I always say: to become a true artiste, one must first strive to become a good human being.

In the times of the kings, they were the custodians of the arts. They would provide patronage, preserve traditions, and ensure that excellence was protected and promoted. They were deeply committed to safeguarding what was valuable.

I am not a king, but I try to follow that vision in my own way. I have created a library and a museum to preserve and showcase the oldest artifacts, so that people, especially the younger generation, can see and take an interest in them. I want to convey to them that art is also a profession. While it is challenging to earn a living solely from it, mastering an art form opens many avenues. You can apply it in theatre, choreography, and various other fields to expand your opportunities.

I personally learned Chhau at Seraikella, but I have worked extensively in theatre and choreography. The financial rewards are modest, but the experience and opportunities the art has given me are invaluable. I have travelled to many countries and seen remarkable places, often without cost, thanks to the doors that art has opened for me.

Looking ahead, my vision is to train my son and perhaps two or four dedicated students properly. If I succeed, this dance will continue for another 50, 60, or even 100 years. I aim to maximise performances, and I will continue this work for as long as I have strength and life. Until my final breath, I will dance, and I will make others dance. This is my vision.